Do No Harm
by JacksonMiracle
Summary: A Jasper/OC story. Collaboration with Ambivalentanarchist. Jasper is working as a psychotherapist in San Diego when Robyn Summers steps into his life. Robyn's blood appeals to him more than any other, but not nearly as much as her fascinating personality, and hints of a latent ability. Join them as they overcome strife and find love.
1. The Oath

**Author's Note: This is a collaboration between myself (Miracle) and Ambivalentanarchist (Biv). For the most part I'll be writing the Jasper POV chapters and Biv will be writing the Robyn POV chapters. However, I could never do any of this without her amazing talent and creativity! Robyn is Biv's OC, so please no stealing her. Can't wait to hear what everyone thinks about this EPIC adventure we've decided to take together, so please leave us a note to let us know how we're doing. Love it or hate it, just tell us, and please let us know why. Neither of us are practicing psychotherapists, so if there's anything technical that we messed up on, please don't hesitate to let us know that as well so we can correct it! Thank you so much in advance!**

**Disclaimer: Twilight and all recognizable persons and settings are the sole property of the amazing SM. Biv and I do not benefit from this writing in any way. **

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**Chapter One: "The Oath"**

**JPOV**

Tuesday. Intake day. It's not so much that I mind receiving new patients as it is that I never know exactly what to expect. There's only so much that I can glean from reading a patient's chart after all. I never know exactly what I'm getting myself into with a new patient until that first meeting. Some patients come in terrified of what I'll tell them, others come in a little apprehensive, and a very select few come in excited and even joyous. Those are the patients with the most issues. Anyone who's excited to be talking to a shrink definitely needs to take a second look at the priorities in their life. Most patients are fairly straight forward in how they approach these visits. They come in a little scared, shy, maybe a little angry, they slump down on the couch or the chair next to it, whichever they prefer, and stare. They sit and they stare at me. They wait for me to direct the conversation, wait for me to ask them questions about why they're here, wait for me to tell them exactly what they have to do to fix their life. If only it were that simple. But, it's not. Psychotherapy is a long, involved, arduous process that not many humans successfully complete in their short time with me. It takes a lifetime to really adjust to or recover from life's changing circumstances. Whether a patient struggles with depression, dysmorphia, divorce, drugs, drinking, or death, most people don't just sit down in here one day and find the magic cure for whatever ails them. Again, it's a process, and I like to think of myself as their guide through that journey. Sometimes the journey has a completed, resolved, happy ending, and sometimes, the screen goes black and the words_ to be continued_ appear in perfect calligraphy. Regardless, it's my job to see them through the entire thing and make sure they get from one part of the movie to the next with as little damage as possible.

There's a cherry frame behind my desk, hanging on the wall just above where my head's shadow usually lands due to the light from my desk lamp. Inside the frame is a plain ecru and gold colored certificate proclaiming that I, Dr. Jasper Whitlock, am a board certified psychotherapist and am licensed to practice in the state of California. It's not the original certificate of course. That one was packed away almost forty years ago, and it was issued for Texas, not California. This one is a fabrication that Jenks created for me. The date on it is less than a year old, and it's more modern looking. Next to the certificate is another cherry frame containing another ecru and gold piece of card stock paper, but this one was the original copy. I received it as a reminder of the oath I took when I accepted my board certification.

Before a doctor can become board certified, they have to appear before a board of their peers. It is their fellow colleagues on that board who are responsible for determining their worth as a psychotherapist. I'm sure that the process is a little different now, but when I first took on the challenge, I was one of fifty candidates invited to present myself to the board in the hopes of earning my final certification. One at a time, we appeared before the board, gave a short summary of our experience thus far in the field and offered up a few insights into the work that we hoped to accomplish with our new designation. They had everything else they needed in front of them, references, proof of education and continuing education, reviews from any internships we had completed, and our personal statement in the form of a cover letter. Only two of the original fifty candidates were denied board certification. The other forty-eight of us appeared before the board as one large group, and took our oath together. The words we recited then and the words hanging on my wall now are exactly the same. Something so strong and powerful is rarely, if ever, changed. Like the Hippocratic Oath that physicians have to take, the Psychotherapist's Oath can be traced back to ancient Greece. Although the lines about assisted suicide and abortion of an unborn child were removed due to the current laws and ethical standards within the US, the heart of the oath remains the same as the original author intended.

As a psychotherapist:

I must first do no harm.

I will promote healing and well-being in my clients and place the client's and public's interests above my own at all times.

I will respect the integrity of the persons with whom I am working, and I will remain objective in my relationships with clients and will act with integrity in dealing with other professionals.

I will provide only those services for which I have had the appropriate training and experience and will keep my technical competency at the highest level in order to uphold professional standards of practice.

I will not violate the physical boundaries of the client and will always provide a safe and trusting haven for healing.

I will defend the profession against unjust criticism and defend colleagues against unjust actions.

I will seek to improve and expand my knowledge through continuing education and training.

I will refrain from any conduct that would reflect adversely upon the best interest of The American Psychotherapy Association and its ethical standards of practice.

It's kind of strange to look back on my life now and see the ways that not only this oath, but also the people who inspired me to take it, forced me to change my entire worldview when I thought I was stuck in a darkness without dawning. I know that it's not the best analogy, since, when dawn comes, I have to lock myself away and avoid it at all costs. But, when it comes to emotional analogies, it's really the only one that I've seen fit to use consistently for the past seven decades. It makes sense to the humans, so I hang on to it.

Life with Maria was like dusk to my human life, the sun set on what I thought was the best part of my existence. I was thrust into a world of pain and chaos. I still shudder at the memories of life during the Southern Wars. It wasn't until Peter and Charlotte came back for me and convinced me to leave with them, leave Maria once and for all, that I even considered the possibility of hope. Sadly, that possibility was very short lived. I soon realized that life on the outside wasn't much better than it had been with Maria. Life was dark. There was nothing to be said for it. So, I gave up. I struck out on my own and believed that eventually, I would die, and that would be the end. Total blackout.

I still don't know why or how, but I found myself in Philadelphia in a small diner on the outskirts of town. That's where I met Alice. I took her hand without hesitation, and for the first time since I was a human, I saw dawn on the horizon. Alice showed me that I could live by feeding on animals instead of humans. That first hunt was a huge relief; it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Animals didn't have emotions. Deer weren't scared. Bears weren't pleading with some invisible force to save them. I thanked Alice for her time and turned to leave, but she stopped me. She said that I would still struggle with the temptation to hunt humans and that if I really wanted to learn to live only on animals, she would take me to a family who would help me learn control. So, I followed her to the Cullens.

I didn't stay long, only a few years, just long enough for the sun to fully rise on my new life. Just long enough for them to talk me into trying something new, to work on actually accomplishing something with the virtually unlimited time that I had. So, I did. I went to college and earned a doctorate degree in clinical psychology. It seemed like the logical thing to do, but I didn't have the courage to actually use it, to actually live and work among humans. But, one phone call with Alice, and two trips to the mall later, the second one under Alice's orders when I failed to buy the correct color tie during the first trip, I found myself in the lobby of Premier Psychological Services in Houston, applying for a job.

I still have contact with the Cullens. They live in a place called Forks, Washington now. We talk every couple of weeks, and I still consider Alice one of my best friends. I know that I can count on her and the Cullens as much as I can Peter and Charlotte, if not more so. Just as they can count on me. I think back on the time not too long ago that they called me and asked me to visit for a week. I found out once I got there the reason they asked me to visit was because there was an army of newborn vampires on their way to attack them, and they wanted my expertise. Not long after that, they called me again to act as a witness in their favor against the Volturi. It seems that my dear "brother" Edward managed to impregnate a human girl. When the hybrid child was born, the Volturi caught wind of it, but they only had half the story. They believed Renesmee to be an immortal child, so the Cullens needed witnesses to Renesmee's growth and change in the weeks leading up to the Volturi's promised visit. I arrived just to have Alice whisk me away in search of further proof of the existence of hybrid human and vampire children, which we found in the form of Nahuel, arriving with him just in time to help prevent an all out war.

Since making that leap of faith into the workplace at Premier, I've been virtually unstoppable. I look old for my age, and thanks to Alice and Rosalie, I also have several styling tips that can help age me enough to fool the humans into thinking that I'm really in my late twenties, when I was just barely nineteen at the time I was changed. It's been a long time since I felt nineteen so acting the part has never been an issue for me. Every now and then a human will comment about how young I look, and that's when I know that it's time for me to move. I never stay in the same area for more than six years. After six, they kind of expect me to start applying for more certifications, and although I could have qualified as a Master Therapist several times over now, that also comes with a certain amount of name recognition, name recognition that I couldn't afford to have if I wanted to continue my current lifestyle. So, I make up an excuse, transfer all my current patients to another therapist and move.

My latest move landed me in San Diego, California, one of the sunniest places in America. I know, I know, that shouldn't be possible. It's dangerous, it's nearly unheard of, but I found out long ago that this job is a very demanding one. I can easily work from sunrise to sunset every day, no questions asked. I don't see patients that entire time of course, but there's always paperwork to catch up on, and independent study classes to help fulfill any continuing education requirements. Besides, I usually take long weekends in order to have time to get out of the city, and go for a hunt. Only allowing myself to feed on weekends is not as difficult as I thought it would be at first. If there's a midweek emergency and I have to eat, the blood bank is literally across the street. The only downside to having a weak moment and being forced to indulge is the contact lenses I have to wear in the days that follow. I don't have any windows in my office, and I'm not close to any of the other therapists in the building, so I never get asked out to lunch.

I'm a good doctor. I have one of the highest clearance rates in the building. Meaning that more of my patients are released and go on to live happy, productive lives than any of the other doctors in the city. I guess that's why the hospital sends me so many red files. The world of psychotherapy is very colorful. Blue files are reserved for children and teenagers. Green files indicate that for whatever reason, we have to take special precautions with a patient. More often than not, those precautions include removing any sharp objects from the room. Red files indicate a patient is required to attend a follow-up appointment with a psychotherapist subsequent to a severe mental/emotional reaction. It means they were checked in to a hospital for emotional trauma, visited with the hospital clinician and were assigned a permanent counselor outside of the hospital. Once the clinician at the hospital clears them, they're released back to their normal lives. Most of them never even show up for the follow-up appointments. Legally, we can't make them. If the clinician deems there's no immediate threat to the patient or others by releasing them, then we have no right to hold them. They have to come back on their own. Sure, we tell them they have to come back for the appointment, but there are no consequences if they don't.

Do no harm. I repeat the oath over to myself as I open the red colored file folder on top of the stack on my desk. Robyn Summers. I only have a little over ten minutes before she's due to arrive. After skimming the file for less than two of those minutes, I can't help but beg any unseen forces out there that she'll be one of the few who do come back. It's clear to me that this girl is hurting, she needs someone to listen, to be there for her. If she doesn't show up to seek that help, then there's a very good chance she could end up back in the hospital or worse. This girl should never have been released by a simple clinician, without some way of enforcing that she follows up for treatment and any consultations that she's assigned. I look to the clock by the door and frown to myself in thought, wondering not for the first time if our system of mental health care in the US is really the best one or just the cheapest one. Do no harm. That's an easy thing to say, but if Robyn Summers doesn't show up in three minutes, then I'd say we've done quite a bit of harm and not an ounce of good.


	2. Grief

**Chapter Two: "Grief"**

**RPOV**

I was eight years old when my father died. Despite that, I remember it with incredible clarity. It had been like any other day, at least any other winter day in San Diego. It rained instead of snowed—like most days. Actually, this day, it poured. It poured so hard that the pounding of water against the window kept distracting me from the coloring books my mother had set out for me. I wasn't at school that day because the city had deemed the roads unsafe for travel. But, my father went out anyway. I remember him lingering at the door with my mother, talking, the Mickey Mouse tie I had gotten him for father's day wrapped around his neck. He had an important hearing that day that he couldn't miss, so he left.

Then, it happened. Not a knock at the door—a phone call. I couldn't hear the person on the other end, but my curious eyes watched as my mother shook her head, trying to stifle her cries and she walked into the next room. Even though I had no idea what had happened, on some level, I knew that she was in pain. I could almost feel it in my own chest, a dull, sustaining ache. She had lost her soul mate just as I had lost my father. She distanced herself from me, from everything, for a long time and I couldn't find it in myself to blame her, even though I missed her.

It wasn't long before my father's treasures were packed away in boxes. Some time after that, we moved. We went to a field full of statues and polished stones and buried an empty black box in the ground. I was more than confused. I was lost. I didn't understand why my father had never come home.

I was only eight. I didn't know what death meant in those days. I didn't realize the implications of forever. Of losing someone—really losing them. I was still naive enough to believe in magic and Santa Claus and happy endings for goodness sakes! I was innocent. Wide-eyed. Hopeful. Everything was so simple. So wonderful. It all made perfect sense in its own way. But, it was all a dream. A beautiful dream. But, like everything else in life, all dreams must end.

Grief is a funny thing. It changes us, all of us, in different ways. The death of my father broke my mother. She still functioned physically. She took care of me. She fed me. She took me to school. She went to work. She ate. She slept. But, she was changed, and not for the better. The light in her eyes had died. That sparkle she exhibited when my father wrapped his arms around her or whispered in her ear was lost. She got better, slowly, over time, she started to smile again, to laugh again, but she never went back to being the woman she was before my father hydroplaned into a ditch.

I didn't really grieve for my father the way my mother did. I didn't cry. I didn't withdraw into myself. At first, I didn't really know what had happened. I just knew that my mother way hurting, so I behaved. I didn't act out. I did my homework. I brushed my teeth. I did what I was told. Even then, I realized how much my actions would affect the people around me. This became a pattern for me far into my teenage years. I knew if my grades fell, or if I got in trouble in school, my mother would worry. At the time, she was working three jobs to support us. I couldn't put that on her.

In a sense, it became my way of honoring my father. I behaved the way he'd taught me. I obeyed rules. I thought about the consequences my actions would have, not only for me, but for others. This was the way I mourned him. I remembered him, and I tried to be the woman he would have wanted me to be.

I took my mother's death much differently.

I was so happy before I'd gotten the news. I had just celebrated my twentieth birthday. I was fully grown now. An adult. I had my own life. A best friend. A boyfriend. A scholarship.

Everything in my life had seemed to line up. I had survived a terrifying car accident and come out the other side better and stronger. I graduated high school with my head held high. Now, I was in college, a dream I had never allowed myself.

For the first time in a long time, I could honestly say things were going well for me. The people in my life were happy and so was I.

But, somehow, all of that fell apart at once. It crumpled beneath me. Just further proof that good things simply aren't built to last. Happiness isn't meant to stand the test of time. It's fleeting. It's something that we have to strive for, to work for, to wait for. That's what makes it so special.

It all started at a dinner. My boyfriend, Guy, sank down on one knee at our table. Immediately, I knew what was happening. He was talking about us, about our future, about a family, but I couldn't hear any of it. All I could hear was my own heart pounding in my chest. There was a ring. I chocked. I wasn't ready. I couldn't say yes to him—not yet. And he couldn't wait for me to be ready any longer. So, he went back to Paris. It was over. I loved him and we'd spent a year and a half of our lives together, but it hadn't been enough.

I went home. I slept. Then I went to class the next day. I didn't tell my mother or my best friend Mitch. Usually, they were my closest confidants, but this I didn't want to talk about. Not even with them. It was too hard. I was so conflicted. A part of me still loved and missed Guy, but another part knew that letting him go had been the right thing to do. He wanted a family. A home. A life. And I wasn't ready for that yet, maybe I never would be. Either way, he deserved to have those things, even if I wasn't the one to give them to him. I wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn't with me.

The night it happened I was out late studying at the campus library. My dorm mate didn't burn the midnight oil the way I often did, so, as a courtesy, I would study there until they closed to give her a chance to sleep. Before I knew it my phone was ringing. Well, vibrating really. I was careful to keep it on silent in the library.

I didn't recognize the number, so I let it ring instead of answering it. Minutes later a voicemail was left, so I decided to play it back. My heart clenched in my chest at those first few words.

"Hello, this is Miranda Bailey from UC San Diego Medical Center. I'm looking for Robyn Summers. We have a Stacy Summers here—" I stopped the message and scrambled. It was the hospital. My mother was in the hospital. I was out the door and headed to my car as quickly as my feet would carry me.

It was too late by the time I got there. When they had called me, the doctors had thought she was stable. They hadn't known about the head trauma that must have happened when that drifting semi knocked her car into a pole on her way home from the late shift. She died of an internal brain hemorrhage minutes before I arrived. She was dead. Gone forever. The only family I knew had been snatched away from me. I asked for a minute alone with her before crumbling to the ground at her bedside and crying. I had lost her. I felt so alone.

Eventually, I pulled myself together and went home. Although, I wasn't exactly as together as I had tried to make them believe. I was shattered pieces. I wasn't myself. Everything felt futile. Worthless. Life... Life seemed like a fool's game. We worked hard, we hoped, we loved, for what? To have everything taken away from us, bit by bit, until we have nothing left? What was this cruel, unfair world I lived in playing at? Why was life so cruel and cold?

I wanted to scream. To cry. I didn't want to eat. I couldn't sleep. I ignored the people around me. I forgot about classes. About my work. About my goals, my dreams. I hated everything. I didn't pick up the phone when it rang. The noise annoyed me so much that I eventually smacked it against my nightstand until it was broken beyond use. I hardly had the energy to drag myself to the bathroom when nature called, although I did.

Even Mitch's early arrival home from his fall program in Japan didn't seem to rouse me from my decline. I knew I should have been happy and relieved to have someone I trusted, a friend I had leaned on since I was a child, at my side, but I felt like a burden. I didn't want to be. I wanted him to go back to Japan. He didn't understand. He couldn't. So, I told him to go away. I screamed at him to leave me be. And when he wouldn't, I turned to ignoring him.

Eventually, I ended up there. The psych ward at Sharp Memorial. I fought him and the doctors he brought me to, of course. I didn't belong there. I wasn't crazy. I didn't need help. Or drugs. Or a therapist. But, I knew that Mitch felt he hadn't had a choice in taking me there. I didn't blame him, not really. I hadn't been myself, and if the situation were reversed, I don't know what I would have done. But, that didn't mean I was ready to talk to him again yet, either.

They had given me a sedative upon my arrival. When I woke up, the nurse informed me that I had been asleep over forty-eight hours. When I asked to speak with a doctor, they told me I had to eat and drink first. But, I didn't really need that motivation. By the time I woke I was so hungry that I didn't even really taste the food as it went down.

And now... Now I was here. I let out a long, huffing sigh as I pushed my way through the revolving door of the building, each step taking me closer to the office of the therapist I promised Dr. Hoffman I'd make a visit to if he discharged me.

He had made me promise other things as well before he signed my release papers. Namely, that I would commit myself to a regular eating and sleeping schedule, and that I would either decide to continue my courses or withdraw from classes by the end of the week after making the decision of whether or not I could handle it. Of course, I didn't have any real commitment to come—it's not like they could drag me back to the loony bin if I didn't—he had declared me mentally competent. But, I had a moral obligation to go. I had promised after all.

I bypassed the elevators, quickly making my way up the stairs instead, the Converse tennis shoes I wore around campus still firmly laced to my feet and aiding in the task as I made my way to the third floor. I had rightly assumed that his office number, in the three hundreds, had been some indication that it was on the coordinating floor, as it was on campus.

My eyes followed the room numbers as I made my way down the hall, passing open and closed offices alike until I reached my destination. Suite three hundred and eleven. 'Jasper Whitlock, PhD' was smartly affixed to the door on a golden plate. I hesitated a moment taking a deep, calming breath and gathering my courage before I reached out a hand to rap on the soft wood of the door.

"Um... Dr. Whitlock?" I asked, softly, unsure if I should just walk in or wait for permission. It was, after all, his office.

"Come in." A warm voice, much younger-sounding than I expected it to be, intoned. "Ms. Summers?" He inquired, as I opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door, but hovering near it as I took in his office.

It was dark, without windows like some of the others I had passed on my way here. A few lamps lit the space, illuminating the spines of antique books that lined shelves on either side of the room and the paper sprawled across his desk, but the absence of natural light was felt, in the large, closed-off space.

"Yes. That's me." I answered, softly, as I took a few cautious steps towards the couch that opposed the large, mahogany desk where he was seated. "I hope I'm not late." I added, as I lightly sat down on the edge, eager for the hour I had scheduled to be over before it had really started. My task was simple: I had to be okay. For an hour I had to be okay, then I could leave.


	3. Psychotherapy

**Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed! It really does mean a lot to Biv and I when we get the feedback to know that our story has been well received. That being said, please continue to review and let us know how we can improve. We're writing this as much as a gift to our readers as we are to express our creative sides. So, please keep reading and following!**

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**Chapter Three: "Psychotherapy"**

**JPOV**

The first thing any professor will tell you in a Master's Program for clinical psychology is that a patient's attitude, the way they carry themselves, their actions, speak just as loud as any words that come out of their mouths. It's called body language. There's an art form to reading body language that starts with observing the way a patient takes in the space around them and how they interact with that space. It wouldn't take a genius to read the body language of the patient on my couch now, but it would take someone exceptionally astute to utilize what her body language was telling him or her. I don't claim to be that observant or judicious, but I do often see things and feel things that other psychotherapists might miss. For example, the ever so slight hesitation as she first entered the room as if lost or unsure where she was at first, or the way she intentionally sat on the very edge of the couch, instead of relaxing back into it.

"No, Ms. Summers, you aren't late. You're right on time as a matter of fact," I hastened to reassure her, and offered her a warm smile in exchange. She was worried about being late, an important note that I filed away in my brain for later reference. It showed that she cared, that she had consideration for other's time.

I took a few more moments to observe Robyn Summers as I retrieved a note pad from the top drawer of my desk and moved around it to sit in the chair next to the couch. I learned over time that it was not only easier to converse with patients when I was seated closer to them, but by coming out from behind the desk, I was in a way making myself equal with them, creating a comfortable, peaceful environment in which to interact. The desk could be a tad intimidating to patients. In fact, the entire idea of seeing a psychotherapist was intimidating. Whatever little things I could do to ease the situation and accommodate my patients, I would do. These things often included playing music, or lighting candles, or essentially making myself scarce and invisible.

I immediately noted that my current patient was very attractive. Indeed, Robyn was beautiful, her thick auburn hair falling smoothly over her shoulders, and her brilliant blue eyes shining brightly despite the minimal lighting in the office. Her emotions weren't so easy to pin down and describe. There was sadness, deep all-consuming sadness, borderline depression. There was loss, emptiness, distrust, hatred. Even beyond that there was determination, resolve, deception. So many emotions, so many layers in such a small body, I wondered how she managed to hold to all of them, to have such depth to her emotional core. It was almost overwhelming, even for me, and I was used to dealing with a lot of deep, layered emotions. One thing I knew for sure, Robyn Summers was no ordinary human. She was special. Anyone who could handle that many emotions and still be standing was special.

I took in my first breath since she had entered the office, not needing to have breathed until that point. But I had found myself totally out of air, and knew that I would have to breathe in order to be able to speak again. The effect was instant and intense, and wholly unexpected. I never before smelled a human so invigorating, so tempting, so delectable. A sound that was a cross between a moan and a growl resonated deep in my chest. Thankfully, it would have been too quiet for human ears to detect and Robyn seemed unaware of my discomfort. The burn was nearly unbearable, and I doubted that anything I could do would ever be able to sate my thirst again after just catching my first hint of Robyn's unique perfume. Venom filled my mouth and I had to fight against myself to avoid draining the innocent woman on the spot. Do no harm. Do no harm. Do no harm. From somewhere in the back of my mind, the words came to me, and I recited the unforgiving mantra in my head until I felt that I could continue with the session.

"Are you ok? ...Dr. Whitlock? You look like you're going to be sick." Robyn's worried voice pierced through my eardrums, bringing me back to reality.

Not trusting myself to speak just yet, I tried to give her a reassuring look and shook my head, hoping to pass off her worry, and find some way to continue the session. This was too important, too necessary to just give up on it now. Robyn Summers needed a therapist who was in control, who could help her, talk to her, listen to her, not kill her and drink every last drop of blood in her body. I should refer her to someone else. Tell her that I had too many patients at the moment to take on another one. I should step back, and let a human therapist conduct Robyn's sessions. I was a danger to her. I could so easily kill her, and the temptation to do so was growing by the millisecond.

SNAP! I jumped as the loud sound reverberated in the tiny space. I hadn't even realized how tightly I had been gripping the ink pen in my hand until it broke in half. I gave a nervous laugh, and tried to smile lightly and say some small quip that would transition us from the intensity that I was feeling into the heart of the meeting. "I guess they just don't make pens like they used to," I attempted to joke as I hurriedly rose from the chair, practically fleeing back to my desk under the guise of getting another pen. "Sorry about that… Let me just… Ah… There we go!" I stammered as I uncharacteristically shuffled a few things around in my desk in frantic search of a new pen, finally finding one and holding it up in victory. I chose to sit back down behind my desk instead of risking being so close to my patient again so soon. "Sorry, now, uh… Where were we?" I pretended to study the one line of notes that I had jotted down. Patient has many deep layered emotions.

I felt Robyn's uneasy emotions, as she hesitantly replied, "Um… We weren't really anywhere yet… Listen, if this is a bad time, I can come back..."

I shook my head vehemently at the offer. "No! I mean, no, that won't be necessary. I'm fine. Why don't you just tell me a little bit about yourself to start, Robyn? I hope that it's ok if I call you Robyn, Ms. Summers. I like to be on a first name basis with my patients. I find it's more comfortable that way. And, on that note, please, call me Jasper."

I noticed the slight nervousness and hesitance in her voice as she spoke, although it was clear she was trying to hide it from me. I hope that I hadn't scared her off too much. "It's ok if you call me Robyn... Jasper. That is my name, after all. I… Uh... There's not that much to tell, really. I'm a student. Kind of. I haven't been going to all of my classes lately. I work sometimes. On campus. Part time. You know, work study. That's really all there is. I'm not sure exactly what it is that you want to know."

I nodded encouragingly as she spoke and wrote a few things down on the notepad. I really didn't have to keep notes since I have perfect recall, but patients expected it, and on rare occasions, I was asked to produce a patient file, and it would look extremely suspicious if it didn't contain session notes. "You're doing fine, Robyn. All of that is an excellent start. You're a student? Have you declared a major? Tell me something about your favorite class. Do you live on campus, or do you commute? I'm just trying to get to know you right now. I can't very well offer you any guidance if I don't know you." With those words, I was out of breath again and had to force myself to take another torturous inhalation. It hurt just as much as it did the first time, and this time I had to grasp the edge of my desk to keep from leaping over the top of it, and sinking my teeth into her sweet, sweet pulsing jugular. Blood. Her blood. I needed it and I needed it now. I could only pray that I would be able to get through the next… Fifty-five minutes with her still alive. It had only been five minutes since she walked through my door, and I already felt like I was dying to get her blood into my body. Her pounding heartbeat was so much louder in my ears than her voice. I had to close my eyes to really focus on what she was saying.

I watched her blink a few times at my barrage of questions before slowly starting to answer them. "Wow, that... That's a lot. Um… Yes, I have a major. Art. I draw. When I have the chance to, that is. Not so much lately. I guess my favorite class would have to be... Maybe... Introduction to Printmaking/Book Arts? It's just kind of different, I suppose. I like it. I've learned a lot in there. And the professor is really brilliant. I'm also taking Figure Drawing. But, I've never been great at drawing people before. I prefer landscapes. Still life. That sort of thing. I live on campus. By the time I factored in the costs for gas and everything, it was just as cheap as commuting. Besides, I have a scholarship that helps with room and board as well as tuition. So, it was just logical to live on campus."

I nodded to show that I was following along with her answers and gave her a tight smile half-way through to encourage her to continue. "That's great! Congratulations on the scholarship! I'm sure that it was very well deserved. That book arts class sounds fascinating. I'm sure that it helps to have a professor that you respect so much. I do have to disagree with you on one thing, actually. I'm sure that you draw the human figure just wonderfully. You told the clinician at the hospital that you were making straight A's. You wouldn't have that kind of record if you couldn't draw people. In fact, I'm giving you a challenge. I usually like to wait until the end of sessions to issue challenges, but I'm making an exception," I paused for a moment, my voice raw and painful from the searing burn the venom was causing in it, but after a second I forced myself to continue, not allowing her delectable aroma to distract me any further. "I challenge you to draw a portrait. Pick anyone you want to in the entire world, dead, alive, real, make-believe, pick whoever you want. Just draw a portrait. I'm going to ask to see it next time, so be ready. Do you think you can do that for me?"

I watched the emotions pass carefully over the girl's face. Hesitation, protest, denial, disappointment, most likely at being reminded that she would have to come back again for another appointment after today, but then, surprisingly enough, I saw acceptance and determination as she nodded her head a single time. "Yeah, sure. I think I can do that."

I smiled a real smile at her to show that I approved of her choice. "Wonderful! So, now that that's decided, let's talk some more. Who's your favorite artist? Who do you get inspiration from? What is it about art that you like so much?"

For the next half hour, we talked about every artist from Archipenko to Ziegler, and many in between. We touched on realism, and surrealism, natural and abstract. As it turns out, we didn't share too many tastes in common when it came to great artists, but one thing that we did agree on was the purpose of art. Art exists to make people think, to provide enjoyment, to provide distraction. Art can mean whatever you want it to mean, it's about interpretation, freedom, expression. I even managed to elicit a few laughs from the previously somber girl. By the time we reached a place where I felt I could broach the giant elephant in the room, so to speak, I could even almost tolerate her scent without wanting to kill her.

My expression sobered after one hearty laugh died down, and I forced myself to focus on the point of why Robyn was in my office in the first place. We had been talking, and I had slowly been building a rapport with her, gaining her trust, and now it was time to address the real business we had in the office. "Robyn, can you tell you tell me what happened the other night? Why were you in the hospital?"

Her heartbeat sped up and there was an instant wall of tension, mistrust, pain, and sorrow erected between us. But, I wasn't going to give up so easily. She slowly shook her head, and eventually opened her mouth to speak, her words breaking me, piercing me deeply with how unforgiving they were. "I was having a really bad day. We all have bad days. My friend found me, and he was worried about me. That's all. I'm fine. You can see that I'm fine. I wouldn't have been able to talk like this with you for so long if I wasn't fine. So, I'm fine. Just sign whatever you have to sign and let me go. You're wasting your time with me. You should be putting your talents to good use. I'm fine." The finality of her words was painful to hear, but part of me knew that it wasn't entirely unexpected. She had shut down. It was still very early in our therapy sessions together and I didn't expect her to open up to me. At least not completely, but this put us right back at square one. A total lockout. Nothing. It was a very unhealthy response, and one that I dreaded having to address in future sessions. She would end up hating me by the end of it, but I had to find a way to get her to talk to me. I couldn't help someone who refused to even acknowledge there was a problem.

I slowly nodded my head in response to her harsh words and allowed any rebuttals that formed in my mind to go unsaid. It was too soon to start fighting her on the issues. If she was still determined to lock me out after the first couple weeks, I would have to force her to talk. But, for now, it was ok that she chose to stay silent. Trust, and open, honest communication would have to come with time, and I had to be patient until we reached that point. "It's ok. I understand, Robyn. You aren't comfortable talking to me yet. That's fine. I get it. It takes a long time to trust someone enough to open up to them about something like this. I can't even imagine everything you've gone through, everything you are going through. You lost your father very young, survived a near-death experience a few years after that, and then only a short time later, lost your mother. I can see how it was upsetting for you. No, upsetting isn't strong enough of a word. Devastating is better. Absolutely devastating. When you're ready to talk about it, I'll be here to listen. I won't offer you any advice unless I think that you're ready to hear it. I just want you to know that I care, and that I'm here for you. That's all. Now, if you aren't ready to talk, that's ok, we have time."

I paused for a brief moment waiting to see if I would get any kind of response from her. Even if it was just a tiny nod, I would take it, but unfortunately, she simply continued to stare off into space, her emotions bouncing from one extreme to another and giving me whiplash at the rate they were changing. Finally, I smiled tightly at her and cleared my throat, pointedly looking at the clock. "I think that our hour is about up now. I'm going to want to see you twice a week for the next several weeks. Depending on your progress, we may cut that down to once a week, and eventually once every two weeks. Are Thursdays and Mondays ok for you? Afternoon, around four o'clock?" I took her stiff nod as acceptance of the appointment times and made a note on my pad. "Great! I'll see you Thursday at four, then. In the meantime, I'm giving you my card with my cell phone number and e-mail on it. I don't care what time of day or night it is, if you need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me or e-mail me immediately! If I don't answer, leave a message. I promise, I will return your call in less than ten minutes, no matter what time of day it is, no matter what I'm doing. Nothing is more important than my patients." Robyn nodded her understanding to my words and accepted the card that I handed her. "Ok, good. Now, one more thing, what did you promise the clinician before you left the hospital?"

"Dr. Hoffman made me promise to make sure I kept eating and sleeping regularly, and to decide if I wanted to drop out of school, or go back to class. I remember now why I loved my book arts class so much... So, I think I'm going to be going back tomorrow." Her honest emotions matched the words that she spoke, and I smiled in response. "Are you going to make me promise the same thing?"

I nodded my head once in confirmation. "Yep. You got it. Eat, sleep, and I'm adding one more, stay alive. Call me if you think you can't keep any of these promises, even just for a second."

She was silent for a full minute before finally whispering a careful, "Fine. I promise."

"Good. I look forward to seeing you and that portrait I asked you to draw on Thursday," I told her as I stood up from behind the desk and held out my hand to shake hers in dismissal. Psychotherapy with Robyn Summers, day one, complete.


	4. Graphite

**Chapter Four: "Graphite"**

**RPOV**

I released a long breath as I shut the door to Dr. Whitlock's office behind me, closing my eyes and standing in the spot in front of his door for a full minute before I could find the will to move. I couldn't believe this. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to talk to him for an hour, convince him that I was perfectly normal the same way I had convinced Dr. Hoffman, and go back to my life, or what was left of it. Now I had to deal with this... Nonsense. Therapy. I was in therapy. What had gone wrong? Why would he expect me to come back? It wasn't like I had slit my wrists or chugged a bottle of aspirin. I was fine. I didn't need this. Twice a week... Ridiculous. I shook my head to try to clear it as I finally made my feet move, taking several steps down the hall toward the stairwell I used to get there.

I pushed the door open with relative ease and my legs moved more or less automatically down the steps as I ran the last hour over and over in my head, trying to dissect it the same way the doctor doubtlessly had. Of course, he was an expert, but that didn't mean I couldn't try. Maybe, if I knew... Maybe I could change his mind. Things had been going so well. He had seemed a little nervous and distracted at first, but then things had leveled out. We talked about school, about art—I had actually been surprised by his knowledge and appreciation for the subject. And then... Then he had to talk about... It. I was grieving, not mentally ill. I didn't need a doctor. I didn't need him. And I hated the fact that he thought I did. That he thought he knew something about me. Who cared if he knew about my father? About the accident? About my mother?

I had to stop myself as I reached the bottom of the steps. I could feel the tears prickling at my eyes, but I knew I couldn't cry. Not right now. Of course I cared that he knew. I was horrified. Enraged... How could he think he knew anything about how I felt, about what I'm going through? Devastating? He didn't know the meaning of the word! He couldn't... And then to have the audacity to try to... To analyze me. To act like there was something wrong with me... The moment he asked me that question, I felt... I didn't want to do this. I couldn't do this. I was ready to crumble up his card and toss it in the recycling bin... To walk away and never come back again...

But, I'd made him a promise.

I swore softly under my breath and took another moment to compose myself before pushing open the stairwell door and making my way through the lobby and out the front doors of the building, dreading having to make my way back through the rotating door when Thursday came. I could do this. Just one more session. I could be okay for one more session. I would bring him his picture and I would convince him that I was okay. I couldn't do this a third time. I couldn't do this every week—let alone twice a week.

I had two days. Forty-eight hours. That didn't seem like enough time to write a term paper, let alone enough time to convince myself that I could do this. I didn't feel like I could—it seemed irrational to try—but I knew I had to. I had to be normal. I had to forget the awful reality that was my life, and start pretending that I had no cares in the world. Otherwise... Otherwise I would be stuck. I knew I would. I had one more chance to change his mind before this became a routine. This couldn't be a routine. I couldn't let this be normal. This couldn't be my life—not on top of everything else. But, I wasn't sure I could. I wasn't sure I could sit for another hour with a smile on my face. I wasn't sure if I could pretend everything was alright.

As prepared as I tried to make myself, I still wanted to avoid Thursday at all costs. I tried to scratch out the day on the calendar. I tried to close my eyes and pretend that it didn't exist, that I was somewhere else, anywhere else. But despite all my efforts, Thursday still came.

It came much too quickly.

I think, unconsciously, I had been sabotaging myself all day. I didn't want to go to this meeting—and it had showed. I had hit the snooze button twice this morning, something I never did. I hadn't ended up getting out of bed until noon. Of course, that didn't really become a problem until I realized it meant I would have to eat twice as much to make up for missing breakfast. Then, it took me twice as long as usual to pick out something to wear and to style my hair, which seemed especially long since I cared so little about either decision at the moment. On top of everything else, I had forgotten where I parked my car and had to fight the hectic three o'clock traffic in order to even get to the part of town that housed Dr. Whitlock's office. So, this time when I made my way up the stairs, I was running. The riding boots I had chosen this morning over my usual sneakers hindered the effort, the one-inch heel catching on every few steps and almost bringing me to the ground more than once.

My heart was pounding and I was struggling to catch my breath by the time I reached the top of the second flight of stairs, despite the strenuous exercise I usually participated in. Apparently, the events of the past week had sapped my energy stores more than I'd been willing to admit to myself. But, I couldn't stop. I knew I couldn't. I pushed through until I reached the third story, then, paused for just a moment to catch my breath.

I walked briskly down the hall toward Dr. Whitlock's waiting door, pushing it open with an apology already on my lips. "I'm sorry, Dr. Whi—Jasper," I corrected myself, quickly, as I closed the door. My eyes darted quickly to the clock. I was nearly ten minutes late. To some that might not seem like much, but to me, it was a grievous offense. I may not have wanted to come in the first place, but I had stolen his time, something I knew better than most that you couldn't get back. It was one commodity that was truly irreplaceable. "I know I'm late. I'm so, so very sorry." I was still breathing a little heavily as I made my way to the couch, balancing myself on the edge of the cushion, the portrait he had commissioned me to do protectively placed in the manila folder I held. I had nearly forgotten it in my haste.

The smile he gave me was warm and genuine as he looked up from his papers, flipping the old yellow legal pad he had been using to a new page and writing something I couldn't make out as he spoke. "Yes, you are. But, it's quite alright. I had paperwork to catch up on. Besides, it is your time, after all, whether you're here or not."

"I really am sorry." I asserted, honestly, rising from my perch to hand him the folder when, unlike last time, he made no move to take a seat in the chair beside me. "Um... Here. I brought this. The portrait you asked for. It's nothing fancy. Just graphite on a sheet of paper." I released the folder once he took it, sitting back down before he had a chance to open it, revealing the pencil-drawn sketch I'd decided to do of him. The shading was much darker and more powerful than I usually chose to do, but I blamed that on the dark lighting I had seen him in and the strong features the handsome man across the room from me seemed to possess. With a hard, angular jaw and square shoulders, he made quite a sight. "It's okay if you don't like it. Like I said: I don't do portraits very much. I'm just not very comfortable with them, I guess. I feel like I can never really do them justice. Or maybe I've just been drawing scenery for too long. People are... Well, people are complicated. I'm sure you know all about that."

I shrugged my shoulders a little and willed myself not to care about what he thought, although I cared a great deal. It wasn't even him. I was always nervous about the way my art would be received. Probably for the same reason I loved art so much, anyone could take it any one of a hundred ways. It was thrilling, but, a little terrifying at the same time. "So...?" I asked, when several minutes had ticked by without a word from him. "Do you hate it?" I began to stand, reaching out for the open manila folder he was looking down at, his expression giving away nothing. "It's okay. You know, there's a recycling bin downstairs, I can just—"

"—No!" He answered, hastily, stopping me in my tracks. He cleared his throat, softly and I sank back down towards the couch as he continued. "No, no. I don't hate it, Robyn, not at all. In fact, I... I think it's rather magnificent. I didn't think... No one's ever..." He shook his head a little before closing the folder and setting it to one side of his desk. "I think you're a very, very talented young woman."

"I, um..." I pressed my lips together for a moment, repressing the objections that usually came when I was praised so overtly. Today was about being polite. About being normal. Normal people take compliments. "Thank you. Thank you very much. That's kind of you to say." I answered, softly, as I tucked a stray curl away from my face. Of course, I knew I had some ability, or else I wouldn't be pursuing the path that I was. But, I was always second guessing myself. I poured everything I had into everything I did, but I was always left wondering if it was enough. Half of my work often went into the recycling bin before anyone else had a chance to see it. I knew I was hyper-critical of my work. I always had been. I didn't just want 'good'. I wanted to stand the test of time. To make a statement. To have an impact. I wanted to do the best that I could do. To be the best that I could be. I always strived for more, for better. I threw myself into my work. It was everything that I was.

"So, Robyn, tell me about what you've been doing since I saw you last." He said, with newly gained composure as he went back to writing notes. I didn't bother to try and peer over and read them this time. I already knew that it would be an empty endeavor.

"Well..." I began, slowly. "It's only been a few days. Nothing interesting." My fingers automatically moved to toy with the golden locket I almost always wore around my neck as I recited the week's events. "I started going back to my classes. Just the ones I have on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I met with a few of the professors whose classes I haven't had a chance to go back to yet. I've been working on what make-up work I can... I did a few hours of work-study shelving books at the library yesterday. I haven't really had time for much outside of that, not really." I sighed a little, as I finished, purposefully leaving out the fact that Mitch had tried to come see me twice. I wasn't ready to talk to him yet and I sure wasn't about to talk to a stranger about it, either. Maybe it was supposed to be easier to put your heart on your sleeve for someone you didn't know, someone who didn't hold you accountable in everyday life, but it just seemed painful and unnecessary to me.

"It's good to hear that you're getting back into the swing of things." I noticed his eyes narrowing as if he could see right through my façade before he slowly continued. "But, are you sure you're ready for it? That it isn't... Too much too soon, perhaps? You're not putting too much pressure on yourself? Rushing things? You know, there's no shame in taking a little time away from your classes if it's what you think you need."

I shook my head in immediate refusal. "No, I don't need a break. I'm fine." I answered almost automatically. There was something about the silence that followed my words that told me he wasn't happy with them. It wasn't the way he looked at me, or the tone in his voice, or even his body language that made me aware of his disapproval. It was something else, something less tangible. A creeping feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me just... Know that my words had rubbed him the wrong way.

"I wasn't saying that you do." He replied, in a very patient, smooth, even voice that juxtaposed the disappointed, upset aura I felt coming off of him in waves. "I'm just reminding you that the option is available to you, should you begin to feel overwhelmed."

I nodded, but chose not to say anything else right away. I was tempted to smile, to say something funny, to keep the mood light like I had planned to, but I didn't. I didn't have it in me. Instead, I leaned back against the back cushion of the couch and crossed my arms over my chest, just watching him. Really watching him. I mean, I had looked at him before, but now... Now was different. I was examining him, really. Trying to figure him out the same way he was me. What made him think that I needed his help so badly? How did he think he could help me?

After several minutes of quietly studying one another, I took a deep breath and clasped my hands in front of me. No matter how much I smiled, I felt like he could see right through me, like he could see the pain I'd tried so desperately to bury. No matter how charming or normal I seemed, something told me he would be asking me back here every week, twice a week. But, I couldn't. I couldn't do this. I couldn't even meet his eyes as I spoke. "I'm sorry, but... I really think you're wasting your time with me here, Jasper. I don't need therapy."

I kept my eyes trained on the carpet in front of me when silence followed my meek words. Maybe... Maybe I was broken. Maybe I never would be the same. But, he couldn't help me. Talking about it certainly wasn't going to change anything. A few words weren't going to put me back together. Whatever techniques he had learned in graduate school weren't going to give my life meaning again. His abilities would go to waste on me. He should be helping people. People who had a chance. I was more than lost. I was a lost cause. I felt like there was a big, gaping black hole inside me and I knew, slowly, it would drag the light and life and happiness I had left into it. That was the way the world worked. I could fight tooth and nail for new things, but this is the way it would always end.

I could hear him take a breath to say more, but I shook my head to stop him and rose from the seat I'd taken. "I'm sorry, Dr. Whitlock. I'm just going to go." I murmured, rushing out of the room before he could stop me, closing the door as I went and keeping a brisk pace just short of a jog as I made my way toward the stairwell. I had to get out of here. This was too much. I couldn't do this.

"Robyn!" I faltered just a little in my steps as I heard his deep, velveteen voice calling after me. More words reached my ears before I had a chance to escape them. "I'll see you at four o'clock on Monday, Robyn. And I want another drawing. Anything you wish to draw this time. But, I want it from the heart and I want it to represent why you think you don't need therapy." I huffed in exasperation, pushing the door to the stairwell open without giving him a proper answer. I couldn't believe this was happening to me.


	5. Scars

**Author's Note: Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for the reviews, favorites and follows. Please keep reading and drop us a little note if you get the chance to let us know what you think. Love it, hate it, let us know, and let us know why. And now, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 5: "Scars"**

**JPOV**

Scars come in all kinds of different shapes and sizes. Some of them are deeper than others. Some of them are more potent. Some of them bring up unforgettable memories of times that are best left in the past. I know a lot about scars. Physical scars caused by trauma and torture and decades of war are things of which I'm very aware. For a human, physical scars fade with time. For a Vampire, most scars never even form, unless they're caused by Vampire or Children of the Moon venom. But, there's a different kind of scar. An emotional scar. Far too often, these hidden scars are the ones that truly haunt both humans and Vampires. These are the secret scars, the scars only known to the one who wears them.

My patients have a lot of emotional scars. One patient in particular, Robyn Summers, has a lot of emotional scars. She chooses not to share them. In fact, when confronted with them, she runs away, rather than stopping to deal with her internal pain. I can't say that I really blame her. Many of my patients try to run away from their pain the first few times I see them. It's why I try to keep things light in the beginning, and only bring up their scars in tiny doses, one small increment at a time. But, in Robyn's case, I had only begun to brush the surface of her pain, and she was already running away.

I can't help someone who runs. She has to want to be helped before anything I can do will be effective. I can only hope that I read her correctly and that in spite of her hasty retreat from my office last Thursday, she'll be back again on Monday. A part of her does want the help that only a trained therapist can offer, that I can offer. But, that's a very scary thing. By helping her, I would force her to face her pain head-on, and that's terrifying even to someone who knows what it takes to heal an emotional scar. That's why she ran away. Not because she thinks I can't help, but because she's afraid that I can help her. She's afraid of the short-term pain that will encourage long-term healing. I wish it were easier. I wish she didn't have to confront her emotional scars, but if she doesn't do it now, it'll only get more difficult and only cause her more pain in the end.

I would never wish that kind of pain on any of my patients. I care for all of them, every single one. I try to keep contact with as many of them as I can, even if it's just via e-mail or Facebook. I like to check in on them occasionally. I can't tell them where I am now, obviously, or offer to see them in person, but I can still communicate with them, and offer them what help I can when it's needed. Something about Robyn Summers, however, is special. It's different. For some unexplained reason, I want to be there for her more than I have for any other patient in my long career. It hurts me that she hurts so much. It hurts me that I can't help her until she lets me. It hurts me to watch her run away. It hurts me that I can't take any of the fear away from her. Well, I could, however, it wouldn't be entirely ethical.

She would be back on Monday. I must have told myself that a hundred times already. Now, if only I could make myself believe it. Her emotions had been too layered and at odds with each other for me to really know what to expect. She would be back on Monday. And I would be able to help her. I repeated the words over and over in my head as I drove along Interstate 15 toward Palomar Mountain. It was the best place that I knew to hunt in the area. I could always find plenty of deer there, and the occasional black bear. Unfortunately, I had to limit myself on the latter to once every three months, any more than that, and their population would suffer. The best part about it was the drive. It only took an hour to get there the way I drove, but it always gave me time to think. To consider my patients, and develop a course of treatment for some of my more difficult cases, like Robyn.

I pulled off at one of the many outlooks that dotted the winding road up into the highest of the mountain ranges, easily climbing out of my black truck, and grabbing the overly large green backpack that I always carried when I hunted before taking off into the woods. I was far enough away from any hiking trails to be distracted by the frequent humans that walked along the dirt paths, but carried the bag anyway, just in case a lost hiker happened to come my way. I paused for a moment just as I reached the thickest part of the lush forest, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. It didn't take long before the bitter, musky scent of deer assaulted my nostrils. It lacked the tanginess that elk possessed, and wasn't rich and sweet like black bear would have been. But, it was what was available, so I would take it. I hurried off in the direction that my senses told me to run. It didn't take long to locate the herd of deer.

I made quick work of draining three of them, licking my lips after the final one succeeded in sating my thirst. Finished, I lay back on the green pasture and smiled up at the sky, letting the rays of sunlight that were just peeking through the canopy of trees wash over me, happily watching as my skin began to sparkle like thousands of diamonds. I had never really thought much of the way my marble skin would make me look to a human. I had never really had the desire to let any of them see it before, but a part of me couldn't help wondering what Robyn would think if she could see me now. Golden-eyed from my feeding, and flesh that made me look like a monster. The skin of a killer, as my brother Edward had once called it.

I tried not to ponder it for too long before gathering my bag and taking off at a run back in the direction of my truck. I hadn't gotten far when my cell phone started to vibrate in my pocket. Without slowing down, I retrieved it and answered without looking at the caller ID. I didn't have to. There was really only one person that ever called me on Sunday afternoons, my hunting day. Alice. The best friend who constantly reminded me that there was a reason I had survived for as long as I had. "Hello, Alice," I droned, with a half-smile on my face.

"Jazz!" The pixie squealed her nickname for me on the other end of the line. "So, tell me all about her! Is she pretty? Of course, she is, I saw that much! Are you going to be able to help her? Tell me you have a plan, everything between now and then is so murky and misty. Sorry, I didn't get a chance to call sooner. Rose and Emmett said that I shouldn't call at all, but I couldn't help myself. It's all so exciting!"

"Alice," I finally managed to interrupt the overly chipper brunette. "What are you going on about?"

I could almost hear her rolling her eyes as she responded to my confused tone. "I'm talking about Robyn, of course. You did meet her, didn't you? Please tell me you met her. You wouldn't have been out to dinner with her if you hadn't met her yet. She looked sad. Well, happy to be on a date with you, but sad just the same. There was a look in her eyes—I couldn't shake it... I can only assume that she's one of your patients. Oh, and when you do take her out, order the ravioli instead of the spaghetti, it'll come back up a lot easier."

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "Alice, I can't date my patients. It would be completely out of line, not to mention, unethical. I'm already breaking all the rules just by talking to you about her. Although, it's more like you're the one talking about her and I'm just listening." I shook my head and took a moment to try and process what Alice had just told me. She had obviously had some kind of vision of me and Robyn out eating dinner sometime. "Alice, I met Robyn less than a week ago, and with the way her blood appeals to me... I don't think I'll ever be able to take her out on a date even if it was appropriate to do so. Even if I was attracted to her, which I'm not..." I paused, guiltily. I hadn't been able to get her off my mind since our first meeting. I had been telling myself it was her case, the tragic story that seemed to be her life. That it was the depth of her many layered emotions that drew me in. And, it was, but I would be lying to myself if I hadn't noticed that even with the bags under her eyes, she was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women I'd ever laid eyes on. "Well, I am, but I can't be. She's a patient with a lot of emotional turmoil that has to be dealt with before I can even think about any of that. That's really all there is to it. I am her therapist. Nothing more."

"Not yet." I could hear the smile in Alice's tiny voice as she all but promised there would be more to come for me and Robyn. Although, she let the subject slide, for the moment. We talked for another ten minutes, catching up with the rest of the family. I nearly died laughing when she told me about Nessie painting all of Jacob's fingernails and toenails a different color before she could figure out which one she would like to wear herself. Now that's something I would have wanted to see. She assured me that Edward had taken multiple photos and would be more than happy to scan me a copy of one if I asked him to do so.

I was just hanging up my phone when I got back to my truck and tossed my backpack in the second half of the extended cab before jumping back inside and revving the engine to life and pulling back out into the flow of traffic that was headed into the heart of San Diego. It would be dark soon and I would be able to watch the twinkling of the city lights from a distance as I drove back to my temporary home.

I spent the rest of the night secluded in my apartment, going over patient files and making notes on each case to aid in developing extensive and effective treatment plans for each individual. It was a tiring, but necessary process that would prepare me for the week to come.

As I neared the end of my files, I came across the picture that Robyn had drawn for her first assignment. I stared, mesmerized by the lines of graphite on the paper. There was something about that drawing that I just couldn't place. Something almost… Insightful. That she had captured so much of what I kept buried deep inside of my heart—my soul—in such a meaningful and concrete way was worthy of admiration. I had thought about framing the drawing and hanging it in my office, but I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. So instead, I took it into my personal study at home and hung it on the wall there. I carefully inscribed the back of it with her full name and the date she gave it to me before tacking it to the smooth white plaster.

Monday afternoon had finally arrived and I was no closer to knowing what to expect from my upcoming appointment with Robyn than I had been when she ran out of here last Thursday. If I took Alice's advice, I would just talk to her about whatever seemed to be the most natural, but that was easier said than done. In any case, she had to show up before I could do anything. I watched the minutes slowly tick away on the clock, trying not to let my disappointment get the better of me when her appointment time of four o'clock came and went.

But at 4:02, I smelled her, and she was getting closer. Her scent was at the door to my office now, her emotions conflicted, hesitant, fearful. I wondered what had happened to her over the weekend to make her decide to come back again. Whatever it was, I was glad that she had. Although, she wasn't knocking or twisting the door handle to enter. She was just standing there. I could hear the beat of her heart pounding wildly in her chest, but still no knock came. I wasn't sure if I should prompt her to enter, or let her decide on her own to do so. I could call out to her, tell her that she was making too much noise, or I could open the door as if leaving and pretend to be startled to find her standing there. Or maybe, I could send her the final dose of courage she needed to knock on the door. But, no, I couldn't do any of those things. If she was going to make this choice, then she had to do it without my intervention. I couldn't force her into making it. She had to do it herself.

4:05, 4:07, 4:10, and still no knock on my door. Her scent hadn't faded, and the distance between me the thundering of her heartbeat hadn't grown. She was still there, and her emotions were still churning like ocean waves on a summer day. Finally, at 4:12, there was a very small, very tentative knock on the door, and Robyn's voice shook slightly as she called out to me, "Dr. Whitlock… Jasper?"

I restrained myself from smiling too widely or appearing too eager at the scared voice and trembling knock I had heard. She was terrified to be here. But, she was here, and that was the important thing. She was doing this. All on her own, she was doing this. "Come in, Robyn." I replied simply and calmly, watching as the brass knob slowly turned and her trembling form shuffled into my office.

I offered her the kindest smile that I could, and heard the depth in my voice as I praised her. "Congratulations. The hard part's over now. You came back. Everything else should be easy compared to that." I paused for a moment and gestured to the couch, waiting for her to sit before I continued. "Tell me about your weekend, Robyn. What did you do? Was it enjoyable?" Although, I knew without asking that it hadn't been. In fact, I would wager that it was the exact opposite. I flipped my legal pad to a clean page and made eye contact with the stiff woman on my couch, letting her know that I was ready to listen if she would trust me enough to talk to me.


	6. Ripples

**Chapter 6: "Ripples"**

**RPOV**

I chewed anxiously on the lower lip I had already thoroughly abused before entering the office as I met the eyes of the man sitting at the desk across from me. The coppery taste and sharp prick that permeated my senses told me the pressure of my teeth had finally drawn blood, but I ignored the feelings and continued to gnaw at the wounded flesh. I was already here, sitting in this office, subjecting myself to therapy. A split lip couldn't make things much worse.

Dr. Whitlock's expression seemed to harden and his form locked up, each moment of silence I allowed making it more and more pregnant with what was going unsaid as I internally debated against myself. Should I tell him? Should I say anything? Should I even stay? Should I be sitting here on this couch? It had seemed the right decision a few minutes ago, but I wasn't sure then and I felt even less sure now. Now that I was sitting here, staring him down.

"I—" I shook my head as soon as the clipped syllable passed my lips. I knew every word that would come out of my mouth would only justify my being here. It would take away my option, the option I still had to walk away from this, to face the shambles of my life as they stood. But, I couldn't face them, I couldn't do it. I didn't have the strength. It was the reason I'd come back. I opened my mouth again as he waited, his patient-looking features strained and his eyes holding something dark beneath them. "I... Worked, mostly. I'm still catching up on everything, you know?" I cleared my throat and ran my tongue briefly over the stinging open wound I'd inflicted on my lip. "I, uh... I'm not terribly behind, but there's..."

I stopped, feeling a little short of breath about the call I'd received through the front office Friday evening. He nodded for me to continue after another minute had passed, still looking tense, but a little less so than a moment earlier. I looked down at my hands, taking a long, deep breath before I spoke again. "I... I don't know what you have, in that file, about me. I know you know about my mom, about the accident..." I shook my head a little before continuing. "But, there's a lot more to me than that... I don't have a big family. It's just been me and my mom for a long time. I mean, I have an aunt, Elise. She has kids too, great kids... But, she and my mom aren't blood related. They were foster siblings for like, eight years, or something." I shook my head a little, getting myself back on track. "It... It never really bothered me before, but since I'm her next of kin... Now that she's gone... I have to make... Arrangements. I got a call from the hospital and... I don't know what I'm supposed to do. The morgue wants to release her body to me, to a funeral home or a crematorium or... Or something. And..." I shrugged my shoulders, helplessly as I continued to stare down at the hands in my lap, hating that I was already struggling to hold back the tears, although somehow I managed it. "I don't have any idea, Dr—Jasper... She never talked about death. I don't know what she would have wanted, what I should do... How I'm going to pay for it. I don't... I don't even know where to start. I know her landlord is probably trying to get ahold of me. A lot of people are, probably, who don't know to call the school for me... I have to get a new phone... And a guy almost tail-ended me on the way over here..." I huffed out a long breath and closed my eyes, forcing my rambling to come to a stop.

Despite my best efforts, the tears I'd been holding back began to streak down my cheeks when I felt a cool, gentle hand resting on my shoulder, trying to comfort me. "You're going to be alright, Robyn." Jasper soothed, as he shifted to sit in the chair beside me, pressing a tissue from the box in front of me into one of my open hands as he did. "Here... I know it doesn't feel like it right now, and it shouldn't, but you're going to be alright."

My hand trembled as I brought the tissue up to my face, keeping my eyes lowered to hide them from his as much as I could as I wiped away the tears I had shed. "H-How? How am I going to be alright? Nothing about this is alright. Nothing—" I shook my head again, stopping myself from saying another word when my voice broke. I could feel the tears again, making hot, wet trails down my cheeks. I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't smile. I couldn't be normal. I wasn't happy. I wasn't okay. I was so far from okay.

I could hear him tearing out a page from his legal pad and scribbling something down without having to look as I attempted to clean myself up, to pull myself together again, however impossible it felt after the show of emotion. "It's okay... Take a minute. Take as long as you like. Crying is good, Robyn. You're mourning. It's healthy." He assured me before he continued. "Take a minute to feel. It's okay to let yourself feel sad or overwhelmed sometimes. Especially now. I'll wait. When you're ready, we're going to make a plan."

"A p-plan...?" I croaked, once I felt brave enough to speak again, wincing at the tone of my voice. He nodded and smiled very slightly, directing my attention to the yellow, lined sheet of paper he had been scrawling on for the last several minutes. He had made a schedule of sorts, starting with today. My appointment had been filled in, as well as the one on Thursday.

"Now, you have classes don't you? Before our sessions?" I answered as he continued to write, filling out the times I already knew I was doing something, class, our appointments, work, homework, even eating and sleeping made the agenda. Then, he took out another sheet of paper and we made a list. Everything that I needed to do this week that I hadn't already set a time for or didn't know how to go about doing. One by one, we made a place for everything. One thing at a time, item by item, he went through all of it, giving me information and answering my questions. By the time we had finished, the hour I had scheduled had come and gone, but he didn't really seem to notice.

He had even given me another assignment. Draw a picture of my mom. He said that I could display it during the funeral. He told me that it would be difficult for me to get through, but he wanted me to at least try. I told him that I would. It wasn't that he was trying to be morbid or anything or wanted to take pleasure in my pain, but he thought that if I could remember how happy she looked when she was alive, it would give me some hope that I could still be happy now. Well, maybe not happy, so much as I could be resolved, content, resigned, determined to try my best to move on, to live my life without her. It would be like turning a page in a book to a new chapter. The funeral was my chance to start fresh, and the picture would be my way of honoring my mom's memory. I don't know if I believed all that or not, but Jasper was so passionate about wanting me to try, I found myself nodding along. But, after thinking about it for a while, I wasn't so sure anymore.

"Take these with you." He insisted, folding up the schedule and the instructions, numbers and names he had written down for me and holding them out to me. I nodded slightly and took them, tucking them carefully into the pocket of my jacket.

"Thank you... You don't know how much..." I stopped when I felt my throat tightening again. I knew he had only been doing his job in listening to me, helping me, comforting me, but it was more than that. He cared. I could tell he cared. He was invested in me, as broken and messed up as I was. It made a part of me want to run from him, from this all the more. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone. I wanted to be a disappointment even less.

"You don't have to thank me, Robyn. I'm more than happy to help you in any way that I can." He paused, like he wanted to say more on the subject, but chose not to, instead moving on to a different one. "It sounds like you had a difficult weekend. I don't expect you to have the drawing we talked about, about why you thought you didn't need therapy. But, if you happened to get around to it, do you mind if I take a look?"

"Oh! Right," I began, tucking a stray curl behind an ear. "I... I did. It seems almost meaningless now..." I trailed off as I fished into the tote bag I had brought from school. Before I found what I was looking for my fingers brushed past my wallet, my makeup bag, my pencil bag, a graphing calculator, a textbook, and two notebooks. Finally, I touched the single manila file-folder that held the picture I'd drawn Friday night before that daunting phone call. "I mean... I decided to come back."

I held it out to him and tried not to watch too closely as he took it and opened it, his amber eyes scanning the from memory picture I'd drawn of Lake Alpine, my favorite place in the world. After my father died, my mom took us down there every summer. It had started out as a way to get away from it all, to get our minds off less pleasant things, but it had quickly become a tradition. We went every single summer until I started college. We would camp out in tents, hike, swim... I loved the lake itself. It came from the runoff of a glacier, so the water was clean, and even on a hot day, it remained fairly cool. I wasn't a strong swimmer, but I liked to hang my feet off the dock and stare out at the blue, shining waters. That was the picture I had drawn. Still water that almost touched the horizon, trees and pastures on the edges of the water. Everything was blue and green and alive. I had always felt so calm, so whole, so much myself there. We really were away from it all. It was our sanctuary. My sanctuary. It was always there, always peaceful, always beautiful. No matter what happened, no matter what went wrong, it remained constant. I had wanted to believe that, like that place, life wouldn't change me, wouldn't shake me. That when a rock was thrown in, eventually the surface of the water would grow still again. But, it didn't. It wouldn't. My life was all ripples, and no stillness.

Suddenly, I couldn't watch him stare at the drawing any longer. "I... I should get going. It's already been an hour and a half. I don't want to waste any more of your time. Thank you again." I had already stood when he flipped the folder closed, turning his attention back to me.

"No... Please, stay a moment longer, if you can. Off the clock." My mouth hung open for a second in surprise as my fingers hovered over the strap of my bag, inches away from grabbing it and slinging it over my shoulder. "Please."

I deliberated for a long moment before slowly shaking my head, suddenly feeling as if I couldn't be in that room, so close to him, a moment longer. My lungs felt tight and I felt something else, an emotion, a pang of yearning for something I couldn't quite place that frightened me. I scrambled for words as I unskillfully lied. "Uh... No. Yeah. No. I... I'm sorry. I really have to leave. I don't want to get stuck in traffic. I'll see you Thursday."

I grasped my bag and walked quickly out of the room without looking back, closing the door firmly behind me and stopping at the same place just outside where I had lingered before my appointment. Just far enough away from his door that it would be impossible to hear me hyperventilating.

"What the hell...?" I whispered, below my breath, when the feeling had grown less intense, but hadn't abated. Minutes later, I pulled myself up to my full height and made my way to the parking garage a few blocks away where I had left my old, rusted lime green Volkswagen bug. The transmission stuck from time to time and it wasn't exactly pretty, inside or out, but it ran and it was unlikely it would get broken into, making it a perfect first car for someone living in the city. Honestly, I had been shocked that mom had been able to afford to get me a car at all for my sweet sixteen—not that I'd asked. Now, next to the locket that hung around my neck, it was my most prized possession. Despite all its flaws, it was mine and I loved it.

Anxiety pulsed through me as I unlocked it and slipped into the driver's seat. I was always anxious when I drove. My father, and now my mother had both met their end in respective car accidents. I almost met my own in one, too. But, I had been so determined to learn. I wanted to master it. To prove that it wouldn't get the better of me. Although, the truck on the way here, which would have mowed me down had I not swerved into the other lane to avoid it, had shaken my confidence more than it already had been this week. My hands trembled as I gripped the steering wheel and I fought the instinct to eat my words and race back up to Dr. Whitlock's office. But I couldn't do that. I was going home. I had to go home.

I let out a long breath as I yanked the gearshift into park, closing my eyes in relief when my car finally sat in its designated spot on campus. I was here. It was done. My hands had shook and I could hardly breathe the entire drive home, but I had done it. Nodding my head to myself, I got out and locked the doors before making my way into the dorm building. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a familiar face propped up against the wall beside my door. "Guy." I breathed in shock. "You..."

"I'm sorry." He said lowly, his Parisian accent more prominent than ever as he approached me. "I heard about your mother, Robyn, I'm so sorry." I froze when he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. I would be lying if I said I hadn't missed him, that I hadn't wished he were here to help me, but now that he was, something felt... Wrong. He had left me. He had run off to Paris without me. We were finished. What had changed, really?

"No." I said, and shook my head as I gently pushed him away. He looked hurt and confused as he stepped back, allowing me to separate myself from his sturdy form. "You shouldn't have come."

"Robyn..." He understood now, but it hurt him, I could see it. I didn't like hurting him. This wasn't about that. It wasn't revenge. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to look into the sea green eyes that had claimed to love me, that had asked me to marry him and that had taken off across the globe when I hadn't been ready. "Please..."

"No. No, you don't get to do this, Guy. Please, just go. Go back to Paris." I was fumbling with my keys, trying to get the door open before he could try to stop me. He didn't grab my hands, but he moved closer, his voice conveying urgency that made my chest ache.

"Don't do this, Robyn. I love you. I will always love you. Don't shut me out. Please, let me help you." I opened the door and closed it before he could follow, locking it behind me, although I knew he would never force his way in somewhere he wasn't welcome. "Robyn, please..." He knocked softly on the wood of the door for a moment. I could hear him linger, then walk away minutes later. I collapsed on my bed and cried into my pillow as soon as I was sure he was gone.


	7. Hostage

**Author's Note: Another weekend and another pair of chapters ready to publish! Hope that you love them. Biv and I really do appreciate all the follows and favorites and would really like to see a few more reviews. So, please help us out by telling us how we can be better and what parts are your favorites!**

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Chapter Seven: "Hostage"

JPOV

Late Wednesday night, my office phone rang and, as usual, I ignored it at first. I was careful to tell each of my clients that if it was an emergency to always call my cell phone. If they called my office this time of night, it usually meant they were simply canceling an appointment. At least, that's usually what it meant. Tonight however, was very different indeed.

The voice that came over my machine was soft, quiet, hesitant, and it almost made me pick up the receiver and announce that I had just walked in the door. Almost. But, I didn't. I was curious as to what exactly the voice was going to say. If it was important, I could always pick up later in the call. I listened intently as the voice of an angel filled the small space, echoing between the four walls of my office.

"Hi, uh, Dr. Whit… Jasper. It's Robyn. Robyn Summers. Um, I know this is probably really weird, but…" I imagined her biting her lip as she paused mid-sentence, trying to dig deep and find the courage to continue in whatever it was that had made her call. I wished I could be with her to encourage her in whatever it was that she had to say. Come on, Robyn, you can do this, I silently urged her as I continued to listen, somehow knowing that it would be easier for her to talk on the machine than it would be if I interrupted her with my real voice now. I could hear the tell-tell signs of her swallowing heavily on the other end of the line before she continued. "I just thought that since you helped me so much… With the arrangements and everything…" She sighed a little before continuing. "What I'm trying to say is that my mom's funeral is tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. It doesn't really matter if you come or not. You don't have to. I just... Wanted you to know." Robyn hung up the phone before she could say anything else or I could pick it up and tell her that, of course, I would be there.

I pulled out my calendar and smiled, partially in relief, partially in apprehension when I saw that I had three appoints scheduled for tomorrow. Eight, one, and Robyn's right after that. Honestly, it was a surprisingly light schedule. If I were any other psychotherapist in the city, it might scare me a little that I didn't have more patients on the books. After all, patients meant income, and the fewer patients a therapist had, the lower their income bracket, and the harder it was for them to make a living. But, in my case, I was already very wealthy. I did this to help people, not earn money. And the fewer patients I had, the easier it was to give them each the most of my time. Honestly, I really only had two patients that I was concerned about needing me 24/7. Robyn was the first one. The second was Gabriel. My one o'clock tomorrow.

Gabriel was a good guy with a rough life. Kind of like Robyn. Only different. Instead of grief toppling him over the edge, it had been fear. He had been born and raised in the city, orphaned at an early age, and passed around in foster care. He seemed to be very well adjusted. That is, until he had been found in an ally way with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the chest the day before his scheduled wedding. A wedding that never happened for obvious reasons. It took him a long time to open up to me and to trust me to help him, but once he did, it was like a dam had been opened and a flood of emotions hadn't stopped coming out since. Gabriel's biggest issue was that he had never accepted himself. He didn't think that anyone else could possibly ever love him. We talked a lot about that. About how he couldn't keep living his life as a slave. No, not a slave, a hostage. A slave was expected to work, to serve. A hostage was simply held as a prisoner. Someone that things were done to, someone who had no hope of fighting back. He was being held hostage by his past, by the things that had happened to him. Instead of embracing the circumstances that had made him into who he was, he was being held hostage by them. Bound to them with no way to escape, no way to overcome.

Sure, Gabriel had made some progress since he had started to see me. His appointments were down to every other Thursday after lunchtime. At first, I thought he had requested the change to the lighter schedule because he was embarrassed. A big, tough football player like himself couldn't be seen coming to talk to a shrink. But, he had explained that it had more to do with the fact that if anyone else found out he was coming to see a psychotherapist, and talking to them about the things that were happening in his life, he could actually be putting both himself and others in danger. Life or death kind of danger. Given his brief mention of his foster brother's ties to the Logan Heights gang, I have no doubt that was the danger to which Gabriel was referring. And, yet again, the hostage analogy applies. Hostage to the things of life that can't be ignored, but can be overcome.

I wondered why I haven't ever thought to use the same analogy with Robyn. It was a completely different case, of course, but not so different that I couldn't still use it. I pondered this revelation for several more minutes as I finished the day's paperwork and got ready to leave the office. Robyn Summers, hostage to her grief. It was holding her back instead of building her up. Somehow, the idea still didn't sit right with me, no matter how well it seemed to fit.

9:55 A.M. Thursday morning I found myself standing on the curb in front of a small, family-owned funeral parlor. Not exactly the normal place where you would find a vampire. Contrary to popular belief, we do not sleep in coffins. There wasn't any blood to be found in a corpse, and honestly, it was just cruel to kill someone at funeral. To take away another life during the mourning process for a different loved one was an almost unforgivable sin.

I made my way inside and slipped into the very last row at the back. The room was surprisingly packed, barely room to squeeze one more person inside the gathering. Soft violin music was playing in the background. It was a song I didn't recognize, but it was beautiful. I looked around casually, and it didn't take me long to spy Robyn atop a raised platform at the front of the room, just behind the closed casket. The platform was overwhelmingly covered in flowers and three paintings on golden easels adorned the centerpiece.

One was very simple, a face, a woman's face, her jaw and nose and eyes very reminiscent of Robyn's. I knew it to be of her mother. I could tell from the brush strokes and mature hand that Robyn had painted the piece, a very tiny inscription in the corner proclaiming her name and the dates of her birth and death. Another was a painting of three people, a man, assumedly Robyn's father, a younger version of the same woman from the first painting, and a small child that could only have been Robyn. In this painting the man was lifting the child high up into the air and planting a kiss on her forehead, the woman looking on at the scene lovingly, her arm reaching out to wrap around her husband's strong frame. The third painting was of a girl, a teenager really. At first I thought that it was Robyn in the picture, but there were too many subtle differences, and I knew that it was again of her mother. She was wearing a pretty, short dress and had on figure skates, one leg was raised up straight in the air as if she were twirling around on just the single skate amid a clear surface that had to be ice. Looking closer, I could see a reflection in the ice of a teary eyed little girl on the sidelines. I was so enthralled by the child's appearance, I nearly missed the ethereal glow that surrounded and engulfed the figure skater. Was this how Robyn saw herself? As merely a child crying on the sidelines as her mother was taken from her to skate with the angels?

A man in a black suit, presumably a local pastor, got up from the platform and spoke a few words about life and death and meaning and moving on. He closed by reading a passage out of Psalms. Personally, I had read the Bible several times through, the last time as a personal request from Carlisle, just to see if I had any new insights to it since being changed. I hadn't had any. I still don't really understand the whole thing, but really, being a vampire, I didn't think I had to. There were more important things to deal with now, in this life, than religion. I had a patient several years ago in Virginia that never let me hear the end of it for not having faith. In the end, she started seeing a different therapist since she insisted that a "heathen" would never be able to help her.

The pastor sat back down and Robyn stood up. I didn't really listen to the words that she was saying so much as I listened to her tone of voice, and absorbed all of her emotions. She was distressed, appropriately mournful, grief-stricken, but underneath all those layers, there was a grain of peace. Just a single sunflower seed sized morsel of peace and calm, acceptance. But it was enough. It was something that I could work with. I didn't bother manipulating her emotions or sending her any additional calm and compassion as I normally might have. It was important for her to get to that point on her own. And that tiny spark of hope in her gave me the assurance that she would indeed be able to do it.

The service ended and I wandered outside with the bulk of the crowd. The body was to be cremated, so there would be no procession to follow to the grave yard. Instead, I simply tried to blend with the others around me and not call attention to myself. After most of the well-wishers had disappeared, I would try to find Robyn and invite her out to lunch. I was not looking forward to having to choke down the human food that would mean, but it would be good for her to move on with the rest of her day and an early lunch was the perfect way to make that happen.

I didn't have to wait long for her blood to start calling to me once it wasn't as muted and buried by the numerous aromas from the others in the funeral home. I made my way over to where she was talking to a young man about her age. She had mentioned something about a boyfriend during one of our sessions, but it was my understanding they had split up when he proposed, and she said no. He was supposed to be in Paris now. Maybe this was her other friend, Mitch, she had mentioned. He had been the one to find her and take her to the hospital when things got so bad. Part of me hoped that it was him. He seemed like a good friend to her and I was anxious to meet the one person who knew Robyn almost as well as she knew herself. It would give me the extra insight into her that I needed.

"Hello, Robyn." I easily greeted her with a warm smile as I approached the pair. I was very aware that my natural Southern accent seemed to come to the surface even more when I was around her, as if my body knew that it didn't have to pretend for her sake, it could act like itself.

She jumped slightly, and gasped, clearly surprised to see that I had actually made it to the funeral. "Jasper! Hi." She met my eyes for just a second before looking away again. "I'm glad you could come. Thank you. It means a lot to me to have you here. You helped make this happen."

I nodded slightly to her. "I'm glad that I could help." I held my hand out to the silent man at Robyn's side and introduced myself since it was clear that Robyn was in no shape emotionally to remember to do such things. "I'm Jasper Whitlock."

His handshake was firm and sure, something that I appreciated. "Mitch," he introduced himself, confirming my suspicions. "How do you know Robyn? She's been my best friend for like ever, and hasn't ever mentioned you."

I chuckled a little nervously, and cut my eyes over in Robyn's direction. This was always the awkward part with patients. How to explain our relationship. Some patients didn't mind others knowing they were seeing a doctor, but some were mortified by the idea. I usually just introduced myself as a friend, and left the rest up to the patient to explain or not, depending on their preferences.

Robyn saved me from the awkwardness by speaking up instead. "He's my doctor." It was the explanation that was needed and Mitch seemed to easily accept it, nodding in turn and giving her a sad, tight smile.

I cleared my throat and moved on with why I was over there talking to her, really interrupting her talk with Mitch to be exact. "I saw your paintings. You kind of went a little overboard with the week's assignment." I watched as she blushed slightly and her emotions told me that there was more of a story behind the three paintings than just over achievement. I made a mental note to bring it up during our session. I was a little eager to hear the full explanation. Silence filled the air for another minute before I broke it. "Would like to go out to an early lunch with me, Robyn? I like to make sure that my patients are eating. Especially on days like this one."

She looked awkwardly between me and Mitch and chewed on her bottom lip for just a second before responding. "Actually, Mitch had the same idea. We're going to leave shortly. You're welcome to join us for a bite, if you want, I mean."

I shook my head, more than happy to leave her in the hands of her best friend and avoid the torture of human food. "No, that's alright. As long as you're eating, that's all I care about. I'll see you later for our appointment. Have a good lunch." I didn't stick around after they each echoed their goodbyes. I did stop off by the front desk, however, and inquire about how much was left to pay on the funeral parlor bill after any other donations had been received. The lady at the desk gave me a number much smaller than what I had expected. It seems that Robyn's mom had impacted more lives than Robyn could ever have imagined. Even if they weren't family, they were friends who cared. I pulled out a stack of crisp hundred dollar bills and laid them down on the desk. The 3D security strip catching the light at just the right angle that it would have made anyone dizzy to look at them.

After paying off the debt, I returned to my office with just enough time to review Gabriel's file and make a few notes on his progress and the case in general before he would arrive. This afternoon promised to be a very busy, yet exciting one with all kinds of possibilities. Hopefully, Robyn would have a good lunch and be willing to listen as I explained the hostage theory to her. It was a long shot, but hopefully it would be just the thing to break the dam with her as it had done with Gabriel.


	8. Changed

Chapter Eight: "Changed"

RPOV

"Did you see Guy?" Mitch asked, as the waiter who had dropped off our food walked away. I kept my gaze focused on the fish sandwich I'd ordered. "I thought he would have stayed after the ceremony. But, he just... Left. He didn't even say hello. I thought he would at least be sitting with us when you invited me up front. Did you guys...? I mean, you never said anything, but..." He trailed off, but I knew he wanted to say more. He'd noticed more than just the ceremony. Now he realized he'd missed something. He'd missed the fact that he was the one to find me in the state I was in, to check me into the hospital when it should have been Guy. It would have been, if we were still together. When we were seeing each other, we spent time together most days of the week, even if it was just for a quick breakfast or lunch.

"I... We..." I stumbled over the words, not quite knowing what to say to that. "Yeah. We broke up before..." I shook my head a little. "I don't really want to talk about it yet. With everything else going on, I just don't. I knew he was back in town. I didn't know if he would come or not... But, I saw him." I huffed a little, picking up my sandwich and taking a bite of it, even though I didn't really feel like eating. I didn't want to talk about Guy and I wanted to think about him even less. It made me so frustrated, so angry. I had loved him, and a part of me still did, but it wasn't in the same way. I felt like... Like I did when he left me and ran away to Paris. Abandoned. Forlorn. Lost. I had fallen out of love with him. As right as we might have been for each other in so many other ways, as much as I had thought he understood me, he had left me. He had chosen to walk away. And then, he comes walking back into my life, expecting me to run right into his arms again. To still be there. To be waiting for him to pick me back up like a child's toy. I knew that wasn't the way he saw it. He wanted to help me. He didn't want to abandon me in my time of need. He wanted to try again. He had left me a letter the night after he came to my dorm. I hadn't had the time—or the courage—to open it yet, but I was sure it was filled with apologies, with excuses, with a declaration that he wanted to try again, that he wasn't ready to give up.

"So, that's your therapist, huh?" Mitch asked, breaking the silence, after swallowing a mouthful of the fries that came with the cheeseburger he'd ordered. "He seems nice." Despite his casual tone, I knew he felt guilty. He couldn't quite look me in the eyes as he said the words. It was more than that, though. It was a feeling I had in my gut, an instinct. I guess when you know someone for so long you know how to read them. It was only right that I should know him so well, almost as well as I knew myself. After all, Mitch was practically my brother. We had literally shared a cradle as children, a result of having mothers who were best friends. I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.

"He is." I answered slowly. I didn't much care for the subject. If I was being honest with myself, I wasn't even comfortable going to see him, much less talking about it. I didn't want to talk about therapy. About needing therapy. It made me feel... Helpless. Every time I went I was admitting to myself that I couldn't handle this on my own, that I couldn't deal with it. I hated that feeling. "It's..." I trailed off, not knowing quite what to say. I couldn't really describe it as good. I didn't enjoy it. I didn't enjoy having to do it. "It helps." I finally said, relieved I'd been able to find an honest answer I was sure would reassure him about the situation.

He smiled, very slightly over at me. "Good." He picked up his burger, taking a big bite and talking around it in a way that inevitably made me laugh. . "Smo ghood!" I giggled and shook my head admonishingly at him, although I knew his antics were largely for my benefit.

"That's so disgusting, Mitch." I managed, breathless from laughing as I went for my soda. "I can't believe you sometimes."

Lunch came and went much too quickly for my liking. It wasn't long before we were fighting over the check—we usually split it when we did things like this, but Mitch kept insisting. I let him win simply because I didn't like the attention we were drawing to ourselves. We walked out of the restaurant and after a hug and a promise to call each other later, we departed to our respective cars. I sighed a little to myself as I sank back into the seat of my bug, checking the watch on my wrist for the time since my bug lacked the luxury of an in-dash clock.

"An hour?" I murmured, in disbelief. What was I going to do with an hour? It wasn't enough time to actually do something, not when I took into account the drive it took to get to Dr. Whitlock's office. But, if I left now, I would be early. Really early. I sat and contemplated that thought for a moment. What would it hurt to be early? If he was with another client, I could always wait. Which wasn't terrible, considering that either here or there, I would really just be sitting. Besides, I had made a habit of being late to our appointments. Maybe being punctual would be a nice change. This was supposed to be my new beginning after all, my new start. I chuckled a little aloud at the thought. Even in my head, it sounded so ridiculous. So overly simple and optimistic. Real life didn't work that way. I mean, I still wasn't over my father's death, something that had happened to me over a decade ago. I mean, I had moved past it, I had lived my life, but there's no getting over something like that. Death stays with you. It changes you. This wasn't a new start, it was a new me.

I slowed my steps and stopped entirely as I came to the top of the stairs. I could hear a voice carrying through the door that led to the third floor of the building. It wasn't Dr. Whitlock's, but the voice of someone I didn't recognize. Even though I could tell from its volume that it was being said in the hall, I felt like I was intruding on something private. "No, no, I want to come back next week. I just... I don't know. I'll call you if I can't make my appointment. I'm sorry, Jasper. I really have to go now." I considered turning back for a moment, but instead stayed put. He must be close to the elevators now, close enough to hear my footsteps if I went out into the hall.

"Of course, Gabe." Dr. Whitlock replied. To my horror, instead of hearing the elevator ding, the door in front of me opened, almost smacking me in the face.

I jumped back and the man in front of me flashed through several expressions in an instant, first looking shocked, then confused, panicked, and finally apologetic. "I—I am so, so sorry! Are you okay? I didn't hit you with the door, did I?"

"No. No, I'm fine." I gave him a reassuring smile as my heart slowly began to recover from the thundering that had occurred when he'd opened the door and shift back to its usual, even pumping. "Really, I'm good. Just, not many people take the stairs, you know?" I chuckled, lightly, and the levity I felt seemed to seep into him, making his shoulders relax and the corners of his mouth turn upward.

"No, they don't." He extended his hand out to me, a friendly expression on his face. "I'm Gabe." I hesitated. I didn't really care for handshakes. But, I took it after a moment anyway. I didn't have the firmest of handshakes, not like he did. His was firm, but not too firm, unlike others I'd felt. My grip tended to be on the unobtrusive side. Light. Maybe it was because I had my hand crushed so many times myself. I blinked after a moment, remembering to introduce myself after he let go.

"Right." I said, more to myself than him. "Robyn. Nice to meet you."

"I really have to go." He said, apologetically, and I remembered his words from before, the ones I had unwittingly overheard. Why did he have to go so badly? Why was he so anxious about coming back? It wasn't like the anxiety I had felt. It was more removed from the situation, but at the same time, more urgent. I shook the thoughts away and stepped aside for him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you. Go ahead." He nodded and walked past me as I stepped into the hall where Dr. Whitlock still stood, looking at me in a kind of wonder. "I know, I know, I'm early. I'm completely fine waiting in the hall for my appointment to start."

He shook his head at me and smiled warmly. "Don't be silly. My time just opened up. Come on in." He held open his office door for me and closed it behind us after following me inside. As he had in our last session, he sat in the chair beside me instead of behind his desk. There was something much more calming about it, about being able to look him square in the eye if I wanted to. When he was beside me, I felt like he was treating me as an equal. Although he didn't really act different with the desk between us, it felt different when he was behind it. I felt detached from the situation. Powerless. Like he was just a therapist. When he sat next to me, he was Jasper.

"So, Gabe, he's a patient of yours?" He gave me a slightly reproachful look and I nodded, not needing him to say the words. How could I have forgotten? He was a doctor. Patient privilege. "Right. You can't tell me. Sorry, I shouldn't have asked, anyways."

"It's alright." He reassured me, as he picked up his legal pad and a pen, turning the page to a new one and writing something I didn't even try to decipher across the top of the page. "You seem well. Did you have a good lunch?"

"Yes." I answered easily, a smile playing at my lips. "I did have a good time. Mitch usually knows just what to do to cheer me up." I barely withheld a chuckle as I remembered the ridiculous show he'd made of eating his burger before we moved on to talk about the internships he was applying for this year. He hadn't finished his degree yet, but he was much closer to finishing his than I was mine, thanks to the advanced placement math and science classes he'd taken in high school. Besides all that, he was just plain brilliant. I knew he'd get a good offer, if not many good offers. He was charming, a hard worker, smart. He would make a great architect. Anyone who saw the potential he had would be quick to snatch him up.

"So, you two have been talking again?" He queried, and I remembered last he'd heard, I hadn't spoken to Mitch yet, despite the many messages he'd left on the new cell phone I'd gotten before our last session.

"Just today and yesterday, really. I called him and... I don't know. I wasn't exactly happy with him before, but I understood. I knew why he did what he did, why he was concerned." I sighed a little, looking down at my hands. "Mitch... Mitch is family. I mean, we may not be related by blood, but... He's more than just my best friend. He's like my brother. Even when I was angry with him, I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that we would make up, eventually. That we would be okay. I mean... That's what family means, doesn't it? You take care of each other. You're there for each other. Even when you hate each other. That's... What it means to love someone." I could hear him scribbling rhythmically on his notepad, he was saying something, but I had stopped listening. My last words had stopped me. Love. Guy still loved me. Still wanted to take care of me. To be there for me. But, I had pushed him away. I was running away from his love the same way he had run away from my rejection. I was just as guilty as he was.

"Robyn? Robyn?" I heard Jasper calling out. His voice was calm, level, but I could sense the concern that underlined it. I blinked and looked up at him. He had stopped writing, although he still gripped the pen firmly in his right hand.

"Sorry." I murmured, as I directed my eyes back down to my hands. How long had he been talking to me? Calling out to me? A minute? Five?

"Where were you?" He asked, his voice lacking the kind of judgment I might have expected from anyone else. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing." I shook my head, lying, although I did a better job of it than I usually did. I didn't want to talk about that today. Some other time, I silently promised, but not today. "I'm sorry. I didn't sleep very well last night. I must be tired." Not a complete lie. I hadn't been able to get a wink of sleep, despite my best efforts. Although the triple shot of espresso I'd had before the service this morning helped with that a little, I was still feeling a little foggier than usual. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying that I had a theory... About the way you're handling your grief. I want you to tell me what you think about it."

"A theory?" I repeated, a little dumbfounded. "Really? You know, when you say things like that, I really start to feel like a lab rat." I paused after I said that. I must have been tired. I shook my head a little. "I'm sorry. I should at least hear what you have to say. Go ahead, please."

He began to talk about grief. About the different ways it affects different people. There weren't simply different stages of grief, in his opinion, just different kinds. Different ways different people processed them at different times. He talked about my grief, about the way it was affecting me. He thought that it was holding me hostage. That I was a captive to the feelings my mother's death had brought on. It felt like he was saying that I was a victim. That I was completely helpless. That there was nothing I could do.

I found myself shaking my head in disagreement by the time he'd finished. I didn't just disagree; I found that his words made me angry. Enraged, even. Now, I wasn't a hot head. Usually, it took a lot to set me off. To make me raise my voice. Most of the time I was cool-headed, reasonable. But, I found that the longer he talked about me like I was trapped, like I was sitting back and letting my feelings overtake me, overtake my life, hold me back, the more upset I became. "Are you kidding me? How dare you. How dare you talk about me like... Like I'm just letting this happen. Do you think I want to be here? Do you think I want to need someone else's help? To have to admit that I need that help every time I walk in that door? Do you think this is fun for me or something? How is telling me this supposed to help anything?" I huffed, snatching my purse up off the floor.

"That's not what I'm saying, Robyn. No one chooses to be a hostage, and hostages can still be set free…" He started to protest, to explain what he meant.

But I cut him off, not wanting to hear anything else he had to say. "No, you know what? Just forget it. Forget it." I stormed out into the hall, slamming the door behind me. For an instant, it almost sounded like he was still mumbling something under his breath. Something about anger and being a nice change of pace. I shook my head and quickened my steps, only realizing what I had done, how rashly I had acted when I was already half-way down the stairs. But, I couldn't turn back. Sighing, I continued at a more relaxed stride towards the lobby. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was guilty of letting my emotions get the better of me. It was the way I had always been. When I felt something, I felt it intensely. I felt it in every corner of my being. Most of the time, I thrived on it. Yes, my lows were low, but my highs... Were amazing. It was the way I was. It was who I was. Could I change that? Did I even want to? No, I decided, as I pushed the door out into the lobby. I had changed enough already. I had changed too much.


End file.
